


A Crown of Thorns

by allineedistwentygoodmen (sirtwentyofhousegoodmen)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Elia Martell Lives, F/M, Family Drama, House Targaryen, King's Landing, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Political Alliances, Pre-Canon, Sibling Incest, Targaryen Incest, Targaryen Restoration, The Red Keep (ASoIaF), Westerosi Politics, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:08:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28045182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirtwentyofhousegoodmen/pseuds/allineedistwentygoodmen
Summary: When Prince Jaehaerys and Princess Shaera Targaryen elope with each other, breaking off their betrothals to two great houses, King Aegon knows that he cannot let the act go unpunished.So, stripping Jaehaerys of the title of Prince of Dragonstone, he names his twelve-year-old son Daeron his heir instead. Daeron, as well as his betrothed, young Olenna Redwyne, must now figure out how to navigate their rise in status, along with all the pitfalls that come with the lives of future monarchs.Or, How does the game change when the Queen of Thorns is a queen in truth?
Relationships: Betha Blackwood/Aegon V Targaryen, Daeron Targaryen (Son of Aegon V)/Olenna Tyrell, Jaehaerys II Targaryen/Shaera Targaryen, Jenny of Oldstones/Duncan Targaryen, Jeremy Norridge/Daeron Targaryen (Son of Aegon V), Ormund Baratheon/Rhaelle Targaryen
Comments: 21
Kudos: 63





	1. The Bloody Sheet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was reading dwellingondream's incredible fic "There has been a flood" and an idea came to me. in the fic, when Jaehaerys and Shaera marry, Aegon pushes Jaehaerys back behind Daeron in the line of succession, but since Duncan has married lady Baratheon it's he who inherits the throne. So, I thought, what if this had happened in canon where Duncan did marry Jenny, and Daeron became the heir? Then I realized that since they were betrothed at this point, this would've made Olenna the next Queen, and I just had to write it.  
> Big thanks to dwellingondreams for being the inspo behind this, effectively it's pretty much a semi-AU of the fic they wrote.

_ 240 AC, King’s Landing _

Daeron is standing in the throne room, caught between wanting to gape or laugh. 

Father is sitting on the throne, looking angrier than he’s ever seen him in his entire life, while mother is beside him glaring at the sight before her with unbridled fury. 

There stand Jaehaerys and Shaera at the center of it all, his brother and sister, hand in hand with a bloody sheet on the floor between them. 

“Seven hells,” Olenna whispers from beside him, and he can’t help but smirk at the usually tart-tongued girl’s dumbstruck expression. His betrothed from the Reach is seldom one for few words—much to his dismay, at times—but it looks as if the moment they’re witnessing is something special. 

“Gods help the poor septon who did it,” His cousin Daenora whispers from behind him, “Once his grace finds out who he is he may well call for his head.” 

“You broke your own betrothal between our Aunt Daella to wed our mother!” Jaehaerys tells their father, and Daeron doesn’t know whether to be disgusted or impressed by his daring. “Now I ask that you honor the marriage betwixt Shaera and myself, as your own father did yours.”

Father does not look moved by the display whatsoever. It’s odd for Daeron to see his usually jovial father so furious, but then again, two broken betrothals to great houses—three, if one counts the Jenny of Oldstones debacle—is nothing to take lightly. 

“Your marriages were meant to unite the kingdoms,” Father grits out through clenched teeth. “They would have strengthened ties between House Targaryen and the other great houses—my marriage to my sister would have done no such thing. Regardless, I had thought that I raised you better than my own father raised me, to honor your promises, but it would appear that I was wrong.” 

“Your Grace, please!” Shaera says, throwing herself before the throne in a fit of histrionics that would make the most experienced mummers weep with envy. “I love him! Mercy, your grace, mercy!” 

Father pinches the bridge of his nose in a clear effort to gather the last vestiges of his patience. “It matters not if you love each other. You broke sacred vows made before both gods and men. I would have thought the both of you better than this, you especially, Jaehaerys.” Jae had the grace to look ashamed at that. “I need time to think on this matter. Until I make a final judgment on this, the both of you are to be confined to rooms—under guard and separated from each other. Shaera, you will follow Ser Duncan to the Maidenvault, Jaehaerys, follow Ser Alyn to Maegor’s Holdfast.” 

His siblings take their leave then, Shaera weeping into Ser Duncan’s vambrace and clutching his cape as if she were five rather than five-and-ten, while Jae follows Ser Alyn with a solemn look on his face. 

Daeron spends the next week of his father’s deliberation going about his regular business in the red keep. He attends lessons with Grand Maester Andros, spars with Jeremy in the practice yard, and spends the appropriate amount of time he needs to every week with his betrothed. Daeron likes Olenna well enough, and despite her insistence, he knows she at least appreciates his wit, but the both of them despise the arrangement made by their parents. Olenna resents being given off to a third—now effectively second—son with little to inherit, while Daeron resents being chained to any woman in the first place. He wants to fight, to lead armies, to travel, to enjoy life in a way his father and mother never could. How in the seven hells is he ever going to do that while saddled with a wife? 

Nevertheless, for now, the arrangement stands. As it is, they still have four years to convince their parents otherwise, and Daeron dares not to test either of his parent’s patience while they’re dealing with Jaehaerys and Shaera. Although he ultimately knows what the outcome will be—for all father’s fury, he loves his children too much to punish them in any meaningful way. Poor Lady Argella ended up settling for a Dondarrion when she could’ve had a king—had Father been as harsh as he should have been, he would’ve marched Duncan down the aisle himself and sent Jenny Mudd to the Motherhouse. 

He’s in the gardens with Olenna when she asks him what he thinks his father will do.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Daeron snorts, popping a grape into his mouth. “He won’t do anything. However much Jae and Shaera royally fucked over two Lords Paramount—“

“—And each other,” Olenna quips, not even looking up from her needlepoint. 

Daeron smirks at that, but lets it go by unacknowledged, “They’re still his precious babes. Father’s not going to do anything serious to them. At most, perhaps a year or two of exile—even that’s pushing it.” 

Olenna scoffs, still focused on the half-finished sigil she’s attacking with her needle. “Your father is a fool. Had those two lackwits been my children, I would have sent him to the wall and her to the silent sisters.” 

Daeron inclines his head, acknowledging the point as a valid one. For all his popularity with the smallfolk, father’s position with the lords of the realm was…precarious, at best. They were already weak when Duncan broke the betrothal to Lady Argella. Though Rhaelle’s betrothal to Ormund Baratheon had smoothed things over some with the Stormlands, the Baratheons had not forgotten that they were meant to have a Queen and were instead forced to settle with a princess. Now, with the Reach and the Riverlands similarly insulted, he dreaded to think of the political fallout. Daeron had never been one for politics, but even he knew this was not going to be good for his family in the long term. Serious concessions would have to be made to the Tullys and the Tyrells if they wanted to come out of this relatively unscathed. 

“Regrettably, my lady, they’re not. However, I should think whatever children you have would sooner jump off the cliffs of Casterly Rock than cross you in such a manner.” Olenna snorts at that, and he thinks he sees the briefest hint of a smile cross her face before she settles it back into a neutral mask as she continues her sewing. 

The day after their conversation in the gardens, Daeron and Olenna are summoned to court, along with all the other nobles currently present in King’s Landing. The throne room is packed, the courtiers whispering amongst themselves, more than like trying to guess what his father decided. Daeron already knows it’s not going to be anything too severe, but he’s nonetheless curious as to exactly what awaits his two errant siblings. 

Taking his seat in the gallery, he stares openly at his two siblings—both on their knees in front of the hulking monstrosity that is the iron throne, dressed from head to toe in black, much to his amusement. If there’s one thing he knew one could count on when it came to his family, it’s Targaryens being overly dramatic in the face of the consequences of their own actions.

Father looked on the edge of his seat, his face solemn and red circles under his eyes. Mother, on the other hand, had clearly not let go of her fury and humiliation from the past week, and she stood at the base of the iron throne with her fists clenched and her face displaying barely suppressed rage. Mother’s fury was a terrible thing when set off, it was in the blood, his grandfather told him as much when they’d visited Raventree Hall. 

“We have quick tempers, we Blackwoods do,” Lord Rogar Blackwood had said, chuckling as Mother stormed out of the great hall after her and father had got into a row.

“You have both broken sacred vows made before gods and men alike,” Father announces from atop the iron throne, his tone more severe than he’s ever heard before. “You did not just break your own word, you broke the King’s word as well. Solemn vows were made to both House Tyrell and House Tully, vows you chose to disregard when making your own vows to each other.” Mother’s face is so red that for a moment he thinks she looks like a very well-bred strawberry. “Regardless of your broken vows, you have married in the light of the seven, and consummated the marriage, meaning you are bound for eternity. Because of this, your marriage will stand.” 

Jae and Shaera both nearly weep in relief and smile at each other lovingly, and Daeron has to look away at the sight of it. He meets eyes with his cousin Daenora across the room and sticks a finger in his mouth to mimic vomiting, which gets a smirk from her and a series of barely concealed sniggers from little Maegor. 

“You have abused your positions as Targaryens and my children in order to wed each other. You are right that I broke my own betrothal to my sister in order to wed your mother, but that does not change the fact that your actions have insulted and humiliated two powerful houses who have been nothing but loyal in their service to us, as well as your own. So, here is my judgment as your King. Lords Tully and Tyrell will be at court within a moon, and when they arrive you are both to present yourselves to them and beg for forgiveness.” 

“Shaera’s dowry is to be paid to Lord Tyrell in full and will be done so by deducting your personal allowances. Shaera, you are to go to the Motherhouse of Maris to pray and contemplate upon your sins until I decide it is time for you to return to court. Jaehaerys,” Father turns his gaze to his older brother, and Daeron sees something akin to sorrow flash through his eyes, though he has no time to dwell upon it as he continues: “You are to be remanded to Oldtown where you will study at the Citadel to forge what links you may until I decide it is time for you to return to court. Furthermore, as of this day, you are no longer Prince of Dragonstone. You are to be moved behind both your brother Daeron and your cousin Maegor in the line of succession.” 

Shocked gasps from the courtiers follow this proclamation, and Daeron can’t help but join in. The exile, he’d been expecting, but to strip Jae from his position as heir to the throne feels far too harsh coming from his father. Jaehaerys himself appears greatly dismayed by this but nonetheless nods somberly at Father’s judgment. 

“Daeron,” Father calls, and Daeron turns to see him beckoning him to the center of the throne room. He chances a look at Olenna, who is beside him, her jaw slack in shock, presumably also surprised at the harsh judgment. 

Daeron stands up and takes the steps to the throne’s base. From the top, his father’s gaze studies him sadly for a few moments before he finally clears his throat: “As of this day, you are hereby Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the iron throne.” 

Daeron doesn’t register the words for a few seconds, but when they hit him, the realization that should’ve come to him a minute ago comes to him belatedly. Of fucking course—if Jae is moved behind Maegor, that makes _him_ the next King. _Daeron_. _King_.

The absurdity of the whole situation comes bearing down on him at that moment, and, in front of all the courtiers, in front of his mother, father, and two distraught siblings, Daeron begins to laugh. First, it’s a slight snort, then the snort becomes a chuckle, then the chuckle turns into a full-throated cackle and there are tears in his eyes. He knows the whole throne room is watching him—his father with shock and his mother with clear concern—but he doesn’t care, because it’s all just so _funny_ and he can’t stop laughing, and before long he feels light on his feet and his head lolls back and he feels himself falling. 

* * *

Daeron wakes in his chambers an hour later and squints up at the harsh light from the candles. He can vaguely make out mother’s tall figure, as well as Father’s typical black doublet. Jae and Shaera are there as well, twin heads of silver sat beside his bed. To his surprise, when he turns right and his sight adjusts to the light he sees not only Jeremy but Olenna, of all people, staring down at him. 

“What in the seven hells happened to my head?” Daeron asks, groggily feeling around his head and finding it’s been bandaged up. 

“It cracked open when you fainted on the throne room floor,” Olenna’s sharp voice came then, but it was tinged with something else. Something oddly resembling nervousness. 

“You fell a bit hard there, son,” Father says, tone slightly wary. “Maester Andros says you should be perfectly fine in a matter of days, you just need to stay awake until tomorrow morning so as to ensure your condition doesn’t worsen.” 

“A pox on Maester Andros,” Daeron grouses, frustration at not being able to go back to sleep warring with the continued shock at the fact he was now father’s heir. “I feel like someone hit me over the head with a bloody war hammer.” 

“To be expected,” Mother says, smiling slightly and leaning over to brush her hand through his hair. “I know that must have been a great shock—“

“—Great shock?” Daeron cuts in, scoffing in disbelief. “Great shock doesn’t even begin to describe it! Seven hells, you couldn’t see fit to tell me about this _before_ court so I didn’t end up laughing like a madman and fainting?” 

“You’re right,” Father says, crouching down so that they’re eye to eye, violet on violet. “I should have informed you beforehand, I just—didn’t quite know how. I know this can’t be happy news for you, Gods only know it wasn’t for me, but you realize what you need to do, don’t you?” 

Daeron frowns, and from the barely contained smile of amusement on Shaera’s face it must look far too petulant, so he straightens his face and replies: “I know, I know. I need to step up, comport myself as a proper prince of Dragonstone, and all of that rubbish.” He catches Jae’s sad expression from the corner of his eye and finds himself sighing. “Jae, you know I didn’t want this, don’t you? You have to know that I never meant to—“ 

“—I know,” Jaehaerys replies, summoning a tight, if genuine smile. “I don’t blame you, and I don’t blame father either. This was because of my own actions,” He turned to Shaera, and his smile grew, “And I’d do it a thousand times over regardless.” 

Daeron shudders, theatrically, earning himself a playful smack on the arm from Shaera. His sister, for all her theatrics and general prissiness, has always been the one he got on with best. Dunk was too old, Jae too interested in his books. Shaera was the one who always wanted to know what it was he was up to, who he was making friends with, what things interested him. No matter what, she would always be there, waiting to hear anything he wanted to tell her. He’ll miss her when she goes off to the motherhouse, he realizes. Damn it all, he’ll miss Jae as well. 

How the fuck is he supposed to do this? Jaehaerys—regardless of his questionable taste in women—was always regarded as the perfect heir after Duncan’s inability to keep his cock in his trousers almost plunged them into civil war. Jaehaerys is studious, wise beyond his years, charming, handsome. Daeron can lay claim to the latter two attributes, sure, but wise? Absolutely not. Studious? He does well enough in his lessons, but the very notion of a studious Daeron Targaryen is laughable. 

Gods—it’s not even being heir he’s most worried about. It’s being King that fucking terrifies him. He always thought himself safe from it, being the third son behind two more than capable elder brothers. Even after Duncan abdicated and married Jenny Mudd, he never even gave a thought to sitting the throne—that was Jaehaerys’s role, and he would flourish in it. Daeron sees the stress lines growing on his father’s face, he sees the way his sighs grow deeper with every passing day, he sees the ever-so-subtle flecks of gray in his silver-gold hair grow with each passing year. He didn’t want that, he knew his father never had, not for himself or his children. But now he would have it. In a few decades, _he’d_ be the one with lines on his face and grey hairs and deep sighs. And he doesn’t want to be. He wants to spar with Jeremy and learn how to use the spear and tour the free cities and spend his days without a care in the world, face forever flushed with wine and mirth. 

“I’m sorry for this, Daeron,” Father says, and at that moment he sounds older beyond his years and just so very tired. “I never wanted this for you, for any of you,” He looks to his siblings on his right. “But this is our duty, and we must fulfill it.” 

The talk of duty made him glance over to his right, where Olenna Redwyne still stands by his bed and looks as if she both didn’t want to be present and also didn’t want to be anywhere else. 

“Well, my lady?” Daeron asks, his smile turning sardonic. “Do you still want to break our betrothal? Now’s your only chance to run.” 

She scoffs—a scoff that would suit a woman of eighty more than a girl of two-and-ten—and shakes her head. “Maegor’s teats, no! How hard did you hit that head of yours? Being Queen of the Seven Kingdoms? You’ll have an easier time sailing through Valyria on a pleasure barge than you will getting rid of me now, prince of lizards.” 

The retort earns a bark of laughter from his father, and Daeron snorts, shaking his head. “Very well, be it on your head then.” 

“A crown?” Olenna shoots back, “Yes, I think that will be most welcome on my head.” 

“Our Lady of Thorns, everyone,” Daeron says, waving his hand in a dramatic flourish at his tart-tongued betrothed. 

“That’s Queen of Thorns to you,” She snaps back, and by the gods from the look on Mother’s face, this one will fit right in. 

Seven save them all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chat with me on tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/allineedistwentygoodmen


	2. A Most Peculiar Arrangement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daeron and Jeremy's relationship goes through a change, and he and Olenna are finally joined through marriage.

_ 243 AC, King's Landing _

It’s a sunny morning when Daeron welcomes his elder brother to King’s Landing. Duncan Targaryen is a man whom many whisper about from here to the wall, and for all everyone loves to gossip about him, Daeron’s elder brother is a rather plain man. Handsome, to be sure, but not otherworldly like Shaera or himself—it may be considered vain to think so, but it’s true nonetheless—his black hair is cut short, not even reaching past his ears, and there is a light black stubble on his chin. His eyes are dark, but when one comes up close, they can see a few flecks of indigo. 

Duncan greets him with a broad smile and a pat on the back. “Good to see you again, brother.” 

Daeron smirks. “Isn’t it always?” He makes a show of looking behind him. “And the lady Jenny?” He knows she isn’t here, but truth be told, Daeron had been more than curious about the common girl who captured his brother’s heart. In the five years since the scandal, he has seen neither hide nor hair of the maid of oldstones. He’s heard much of course—a sorceress, some say she is, or a whore, if a Baratheon is the one leading the conversation. 

Duncan’s smile dies a little, but he keeps his voice cheerful. “Oh, she wasn’t able to come. Had to beg illness.” In other words, his sister Rhaelle and her betrothed, Lord Ormund, are attending the wedding, along with the rest of the Baratheon brood, and to parade the common woman who stole away their daughter’s crown would be akin to pissing in their wine. 

“Of course,” Daeron says instead. “Anyhow, shall we?” He points the way inside the keep and keeps pace with his eldest brother as they trade stories of their experiences as Prince of Dragonflies and Prince of Dragonstone, respectively. 

“Our Daeron,” Duncan chuckles, shaking his head. “A married man. I never thought I’d live to see the day.” 

“Nor I,” Daeron rolls his eyes. He and Olenna had been meant to wed two years from now per the original terms of the betrothal, but given the political situation, Father’s council had thought it best to have his heir wedded and bedded as soon as possible in order to secure his position. Though he was a harmless, perfectly normal boy—if sullen and tetchy about his family history—Maegor’s father cast a long shadow, and many who remembered the Brightflame, father included, were not all that keen on him inheriting the throne. “How are Jae and Shaera?”

“Well,” Duncan says, beaming. “Shaera is a few moons along now, growing bigger by the day, and Jae fusses over her like a mother hen.” 

Shaera’s pregnancy had prevented her from traveling for the wedding, and Jaehaerys, refusing to part with his bride, stayed at Summerhall. Daeron thinks it for the best, he didn’t know whether he’d have the strength to face them.

“They’ve only been there for a year,” Duncan continues, “but I think that Summerhall suits them far better than the red keep ever could.” 

Daeron can’t quite contain the scowl that makes it onto his face at the reminder. Why on earth did father think that it was a punishment for Jae to be disinherited? Oh, yes, the errant heir to the throne who helped break two betrothals to two incredibly powerful great houses now has to…reside in a beautiful, secluded palace where he can fuck his sister the day entire and live a quiet life with his future children and the woman he loves. 

Duncan must have noticed the expression on his face because he hears his elder brother sigh and feels a placating hand on his shoulder. “I apologize, Daeron. I didn’t mean—“ 

“—It’s fine,” He bites back, shrugging off the hand. “You get to lark about the flowers with your commoner, Jaehaerys gets to fuck his sister, and I get the privilege of cutting myself on that ugly iron chair for the rest of my life.” 

His elder brother looks none too pleased with the disdainful way Daeron refers to his good-sister but lets it pass unsaid. “Being King is difficult,” he acknowledges. “But you needn’t worry about it for many years yet. Father is hale, and will most likely be on the throne for decades longer. You have time.” 

Daeron scoffs. “Time for what? Father already has me sitting in on those dreadful small council meetings, and after I get shackled to Olenna Redwyne in a sennight we need to move to Dragonstone,” He pauses, almost dramatically: “I despise Dragonstone. It’s cold, damp, and dreary, and on top of it all I get to spend my days hearing from commoners who smell of goat shit complaining about the fact that their neighbors fucked their daughters or stole their sheep—or the inverse,” He can’t help but add. 

Before Duncan can say anything to that, they’re greeted by Mother, looking as queenly as always, dressed in red and black from head to toe. “My boy,” She says, moving to greet Duncan with a kiss on the cheek. “Welcome back!”

“Mother,” He embraces her. “I’m glad to be here.” 

As subtly as he can, Daeron bows out of the reunion and begins to walk to the gardens, thankful that neither his brother nor his mother have recognized his absconding. Duncan has always been mother’s favorite—regardless of how much she likes to insist that she loves all her children equally. Daeron doesn’t blame her, of course, he’s long been used to being overlooked and, in truth, had grown happy with it before Jaehaerys and Shaera stormed the throne room with that damned bloody sheet and ruined his life. 

Daeron didn’t think he could ever resent any of his siblings, but the past three years have proven otherwise. After a year at the Motherhouse of Maris and the Citadel, respectively, Shaera and Jae came back to court and joyously reunited with one another. They spent a moon in King’s Landing before making their way to Summerhall to go and live with Duncan and Jenny Mudd’s court of freaks. Daeron hears all kinds of stories from there—that Jenny has taken in orphans, witches, dwarves, and given them a home at Summerhall. Whatever is happening there, the point remains that while his siblings—who all broke their betrothals and insulted great houses—frolic around in the grass together weaving flowers in their hair, Daeron has to contend with small council meetings, extra lessons with the Maester, and wedding plans. Hells, even Jeremy’s been slightly withdrawn for the past few moons. Now Daeron, who didn’t break any betrothal, who always followed his father’s orders, who’s done his duty, is the one being punished for all of this. 

He loathes it. The only bright side to all of this is that he’s found a kindred spirit in his suffering with his younger sister, Rhaelle. Daeron and Rhaelle were close before, but for the past three years they’ve been writing even more to each other—both joined in their frustration at being punished for their elder sibling’s deeds. She’ll be coming for the wedding, and—if not for anything else—Daeron finds himself excited to reunite with his little sister so they can both sulk in their conjoined misery. 

In the Gardens, he finds Olenna sitting with her ladies, the girls are tittering about something or other whilst Olenna focuses on her needlepoint. There’s Lysa Tarly, Ellyn Norridge, Leyla Hightower, and Viola Redwyne, Olenna’s sweet but simple sister who’s been betrothed to Luthor Tyrell in Shaera’s place. 

“My ladies,” Daeron bows, slightly sarcastic. 

Olenna looks up for the briefest moments, smirks, and gives him a tight nod. “Prince.” She turns to her ladies, “Very well, girls, that’ll be all—I do believe my betrothed needs to whinge about something to me.” 

Barely containing an eye roll at the quip, he watches as the girls scatter like cockroaches exposed to torchlight at her command with amusement. Each one gives him a curtsy—though Viola Redwyne stumbles a bit and looks at him like a hungry man would a slice of cake—and before long they’re alone. 

“What is it now?” She says, surprising him by putting down her needlepoint. In the past three years, Daeron notices she’s become far more amiable to him—though, that’s not saying much. She’s still dismissive, brusque, and sarcastic with him, but Olenna actually seems somewhat invested in this marriage, as well as him, in a way she wasn’t before. No wonder, seeing as how when father finally snuffs it she’ll be a Queen in truth, rather than by reputation through a moniker. 

“Duncan’s here,” Daeron says, without preamble, plopping down onto one of the seats in the pavilion and biting into a slice of cheese.

“Ah, so that’s why you’re sulking,” Olenna says, pouring herself a glass of hippocras.

“I am not…sulking,” Daeron crosses his arms, before realizing the gesture is, in fact, indicative of sulking, and promptly uncrosses them. 

“Did he bring Jenny Mudd?” 

Daeron scoffs. “No—thank the Gods. At least he has some semblance of tact. Although I must confess that I'm rather curious as to my good-sister.” 

Olenna snorts, taking a sip from her glass. “I doubt she’s anything special. Most women of legend are rather disappointing up close because more often than not it’s the men who make fools of themselves over them writing the story.” 

“Perhaps,” He concedes, with a blasé shrug. “Nevertheless, he’s here. Rhaelle should be along in a day or two, as well.”

“A joyous family reunion, I’m sure.” Olenna leans back, squinting out at the sun. “Gods, If I were her I would detest your brother. To be shackled to a Baratheon, and spend the rest of her life at that miserable rock because the Prince of Dragonflies couldn’t keep his prick in his codpiece.” 

“Oh, she does,” Daeron tells her, smiling mirthlessly. “She seems to like Ormund well enough, but she is not happy with Duncan. Little Rhaelle and I have to do our duties because our elder siblings failed in theirs.” 

Olenna rolls her eyes. “Her lot is infinitely more difficult than yours.” 

“How?” Daeron’s tone contains a tinge of incredulity.

“She’s a woman,” The Queen of Thorns retorts, bluntly. “She’s had to leave her home, be a hostage—“

“—She’s a cupbearer,” He says, dismissively. 

“A gilded cage is still a cage, you dunce,” Olenna’s eyes are boring into him, sharp as the point of a knife. “Even so, she has to spend the rest of her life with her captors, squeezing out black-haired blue-eyed giants because her brother wanted to fuck a commoner. You,” she points to him with her sewing needle, “will be the most powerful man in Westeros one day. If I annoy you, you may lock me away in Dragonstone and only visit me whenever you need another spare. She has no such luxury.”

Daeron squirms in his seat and toys with a spoon one of the ladies left behind, slightly uncomfortable with the truth of it all. Perhaps he is being slightly overdramatic, but it wasn’t his fault everyone threw their duties to him. Still, Olenna’s words bore a truth to them. 

“Oh, my lady love,” Daeron says, smiling grimly. “Where would I be without you to steer me back on the right path?” 

“In a ditch, most like,” Olenna’s rejoinder comes out sounding less sharp than usual, an amused smile playing at her lips. 

The following day sees Rhaelle’s arrival in the capital, and Daeron can barely contain his glee as he picks up his little sister and spins her around as he used to when she was younger and she hadn’t yet been shipped off to Storm’s End. She’s lovely, Rhaelle is—her silver-gold hair hangs down in ringlets to her waist, and while she has the Targaryen looks, her dark, nearly black eyes are all mother’s. 

“Sister,” He says, his voice muffled in her hair. Daeron pulls back and pinches her cheek, playfully, to which she smacks his hand away, laughing. “How are you?” 

“I’m well,” Rhaelle smiles, and he’s eternally glad to see that it’s genuine. “And you?” 

“As well as can be,” Daeron turns to see the rest of the Baratheon party: Lord Lyonel, as towering and muscled as he was the last time he saw him, the laughing storm gazes at him with something that looks like suspicion. His wife, Lady Elinor Wylde, gives him a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, whilst Ormund Baratheon looks happy enough at the scene before him. 

“My lords, my lady,” Daeron bows. “Welcome to the Red Keep. I, as well as my royal sire, are honored that you have decided to attend this most joyous celebration.” The words sound like they’re coming out of someone else’s mouth. There’s nothing more Daeron hates than simpering and groveling at the feet of courtiers, but with how thoroughly insulted House Baratheon has been—and if the glower on Lord Lyonel’s face is any indication, still is—groveling is called for in this situation. 

“The honor is ours, your grace,” Lord Lyonel replies, his tone stating that it’s very much the opposite. “Congratulations on your nuptials,” The laughing storm lowers his voice, but Daeron hears the next remark all the same: “At least one of you knows how to keep your word.” 

Daeron, however, pretends not to hear, instead summoning a painfully false smile and waving them into the keep. They are greeted by Father and Mother in the throne room, and, after a few brusque courtesies and barely contained insolence from the Stormlord, he takes Rhaelle for a picnic in the godswood like he used to do when they were younger. 

“How are you, truly?” He asks her, as they sit below the heart tree, sharing a basket of oranges. “Do they treat you well?”

Rhaelle nods, smiling up at him gaily. “They do,” She takes a bite of an orange slice, the juice dribbling down her chin, much to his amusement. “Lord Lyonel is kind to me, as is Lady Elinor.”

“And Ormund?” Daeron presses, peeling an orange for himself. 

To his shock, Rhaelle blushes to the tips of her ears. “I like him very much,” She tells him, almost whispering the words. 

Daeron barks out a laugh. “Little Rhaelle’s got a crush on her handsome intended, does she?” 

“Shut it!” She says, blushing even more as she punches him on the arm. 

Still laughing, Daeron shakes his head. “I’m glad you do, really. Gods know one of us deserves to be happy.” 

Frowning at the bitterness in his tone, Rhaelle takes his hand in hers. “Are you unhappy with the Lady Olenna?” 

Daeron shrugs. “I’m happy enough, I suppose. We’re friendly, but it’s no great love story. It’s less to do with her and more to do with my new position.” 

“You don’t want to be King,” Her question comes out as more of a statement. 

“I don’t. I wasn’t made for this, Rhaelle. I’m the third son, I should be…getting into tavern fights, bedding wenches, and traveling the free cities. Not preparing for a royal wedding and a journey to Dragonstone and attending small council meetings.” 

Rhaelle is quiet for a moment before she breaks the silence. “You can still bed wenches if you want.”

Gaping in shock at his sister, he sputters out a laugh. “Why thank you, little sister.” 

Rhaelle looks at him more intently this time. “Though I never took you for the type for all that. You always seemed more…” 

“…More what?” 

She shrugs, taking out another orange from the basket and peeling it with her nails. After a few seconds of fruitlessly attempting to peel it fully, Daeron takes it from her hands and does it for her, handing it back wordlessly. 

“Well,” She continues, popping an orange slice into her mouth, “You always seemed more preoccupied with that knight of yours.” 

Daeron furrows his eyebrows, confused. “Jeremy?” 

“Aye, Jeremy. In all the letters you sent me from Highgarden, all you wrote about was Jeremy.” 

Daeron scoffs as if it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard, though he uncomfortably fidgets in his seat at the base of the heart tree. “That’s…absurd. Jeremy’s just a friend—I’m no sword-swallower.” He thinks the words are true, but then a flood of memories come back to him at that moment. Lingering gazes, Jeremy’s hand on his shoulder for slightly more time than appropriate, smiles that seem too tender to share with a friend when they’re alone in the practice yards. Daeron remembers it all, and suddenly everything clicks—Jeremy’s withdrawn behavior for the past few moons of the wedding planning, his suggestions that he go back to Highgarden rather than serve him at Dragonstone, the sad smiles his companion gives him more often than not—it all clicks, and he kicks himself for not seeing it sooner. 

“I never said you were one,” Rhaelle says, scandalized at his choice of words—and Gods be damned why else would he immediately think she was implying that if he didn’t feel it on some level himself. “I just think you prefer his company more than anything else. It’s perfectly normal, like Father and Dunk.” 

Daeron grimaces in disgust— _Gods, I hope this isn’t like Father and Dunk._

After a few more minutes shared with Rhaelle—where he was terser than he’d like to admit, he’d need to apologize to her later—Daeron found himself wandering the gardens of the red keep aimlessly, his mind a jumbled mess. Every scene with him and Jeremy that could be seen as slightly suspect played again and again in his mind, and each time he groaned in dismay at the fact that he didn’t recognize it for what it was. 

How on earth didn’t he realize it? How could he be such an idiot? Daeron never thought himself to be…of that sort. He likes women—for all Olenna’s sharp tongue sometimes makes him want to ride off a cliff, he’d be blind if he said she wasn’t incredibly attractive to him, the wedding night was probably the only thing he was looking forward to when it came to this sodding affair—but he’s never thought about men. Not in that way. Highgarden is more liberal when it comes to these things, he’s certainly heard whispers of Gormon Tyrell and that stableboy, but he never thought that he was ever…like that. Is he? Or is it just Jeremy? Funny, kind, encouraging Jeremy with those watery blue eyes and lazy brown curls and epicene beauty and _oh Gods what the fuck is wrong with him?_

Daeron doesn’t know, and he certainly doesn’t know why he ends up at the door to Jeremy’s rooms, nor why when his friend opens it he leaps onto him like a tiger, nor why after the initial shock Jeremy returns his kiss with a fervency that is unparalleled, nor why with every passing moment the clothes on his body seem to gradually disappear and the bed in Jeremy’s quarters becomes more and more disorganized, nor why after he’s finally experienced what it is to be a man he falls asleep in his friend’s rooms with a stupid grin on his face. 

When he wakes up the next morning, his eyes don’t see his canopy hanging over his head, nor the black and red dragons carved into it, instead, Daeron finds himself in different rooms. 

Jeremy’s rooms. 

Memories of the previous night come flooding back and Daeron has to fight off a blush. He’d never…done any of that, certainly not with any woman, though he’s had plenty of opportunities, nor with any man. Daeron feels…different, somehow. Changed—perhaps this is what all those knights are talking about whenever they exchange bawdy stories and insist that one isn’t a man until he’s bedded down with someone. Is he a man now? 

His thoughts are cut off by a groan from his side, and he turns to see Jeremy rousing himself from sleep, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. The other boy blinks, before turning to look at him and giving him a bright smile—not a simpering, loving one, but a roguish smile like he always does which puts Daeron more at ease than he could’ve ever thought he would be. Daeron has no desire to play Queen Naerys to Jeremy’s Aemon the Dragonknight, he’s never been one for grand romances or displays of affection. 

“Morning,” Daeron says, elongating the word playfully, to which Jeremy chuckles and then stifles a yawn. 

“Well,” His friend says, after a few beats of comfortable silence. “I certainly wasn’t expecting _that_.”

“Nor I,” Daeron fiddles with the bedsheets in front of him, tracing the patterns sewn into the edges idly. “Would you believe I didn’t even intend to come here last night?” 

Jeremy blinks, surprised. “Really?” 

“Oh, yes.” Daeron chances a look around his friend’s quarters, smiling to himself at how neat they are compared to Daeron’s, which look like the Battle of the Redgrass Field took place in them. “I only came after talking to Rhaelle of all people, can you imagine?” 

Jeremy smirks, cheekily. “A Targaryen getting into the mood because of his sister? Now that’s a first.” 

Daeron snorts, and punches Jeremy on the arm, playfully. Ever one for the japes, Jeremy Norridge is—even in the most serious of moments. 

“I didn’t…hurt you, did I?” Daeron asks, not recalling the night all too well—it all seemed like a fugue state in his mind, something that happened as a result of stress after stress after stress combined with a world-shattering revelation. But he knows the mechanics of how men…lay with each other—if only from crude japes told by the men-at-arms he’s surrounded himself with his whole life, and it does _not_ sound pleasant.

“No,” Jeremy replies, smiling slightly. “You were wonderful,” he smirks, then theatrically puts his hand to his heart like some lovestruck maid from the songs and sighs, “The picture of princely gallantry.” 

They snigger, much like they always do. Strangely enough, to Daeron it feels as if nothing has changed, yet everything has changed.

After a few moments, Daeron turns to look at Jeremy, really truly look at him, and tentatively reaches out to grasp his hand—intimately, not like they do on the practice yard whenever one bests the other in a spar. “What is this?” He asks, feeling lost. “Are we friends? _Lovers_?” As soon as he says the word, both men scrunch up their faces in distaste. Not lovers.

Jeremy frowns, lines creasing on his forehead with the movement. “You’re my friend—my dearest friend. I can think of no one else I’d want to share something like this with.” 

Daeron raises a pale silver eyebrow. “Not even a lady?” 

Jeremy chuckles. “I’m afraid ladies have never been a preference of mine, Daeron.” 

Daeron hums thoughtfully to that. Jeremy never went out to any brothels like most of their other squire friends did at Highgarden, but then again, Daeron likes women and he didn’t do it either. Though for his part, it was mostly out of fear of siring a bastard—the Blackfyres were still out there across the sea, plotting and waiting, it would not do anyone any good if he were to sire another. 

“Is this why you’ve been so out of sorts these last few moons?” Jeremy looks away at that, and Daeron knows he’s hit the mark. “Because you’re jealous of Lady Olenna?” 

To his surprise, the other man scoffs. “I’m not jealous of Lady Olenna,” He says, sounding very jealous of Olenna. At Daeron’s disbelieving look, he sputters: “I—I’m not! I’ve been the way I’ve been because with…with all of this change, you getting married, moving to Dragonstone, starting a family most like—I didn’t think you’d have time for me anymore.” 

Daeron doesn’t know what to say to that rubbish, so he snorts instead. “Jeremy, you’re my friend. Of course, I’ll have time for you! Seven hells, I’ll need time for you if I’m to survive this madness. When I go to Dragonstone, I need you with me, by my side.” At the other man’s doubtful, sad look, Daeron takes two fingers and places them under his chin, tilting his face up so that he looks at him straight in the eyes, watery blue on deep violet. “You are my dearest friend. You will _always_ be my dearest friend.”

“To the bitter end?” Jeremy asks, hope in his voice. 

Daeron grasps his hand tightly, not dissimilar to the way soldiers do before battle: “To the bitter end,” he repeats, and Gods strike him down if he doesn’t mean every word of it. 

Both men get dressed after that, Daeron knowing that he’ll be able to sneak out of the rooms with relative ease seeing as how it’s the hour of the nightingale and most of the castle ought to be sleeping still. 

When Daeron closes the door to Jeremy’s rooms, he lingers at the doorway for a moment, not knowing why, before finally stepping away and making the journey back to his own rooms in Maegor’s Holdfast. 

The following days pass by in a breeze. Daeron spars with Jeremy—both in the yard and in the bedchamber—most afternoons, takes walks with Olenna, spends time with Rhaelle in the godswood, and slowly warms to Duncan’s presence. He does not think he’ll ever forgive his siblings for this, not truly, but he cannot go on his entire life holding a grudge, it’s simply not in his nature. Daeron inherited his father’s jovial disposition—if with a pinch more sarcasm—he’s not made for frowns or scowls, not like Lord Lyonel, who scowls at Duncan as if he wants to rip him in two. 

The day of the wedding arrives, and Daeron is in his rooms with his Mother struggling to pick between two doublets. 

“Black and red are so dreadfully passé,” Daeron whines at both the doublets shown to him, throwing himself onto the bed like a child. “Why does everything have to be black and red? I’m surprised our bloody chamberpots aren’t black and red.” 

Mother chuckles, indulgently. “These are your house colors, and as the Prince of Dragonstone,” he groans at the title, but mother presses on, “It is your duty to represent your house.” 

“Duty, duty, duty,” He makes a _‘tch’_ sound in the back of his throat. “My cold mistress. Why can’t my duty ever be to bury my face in a pair of great big tits?” 

“Daeron!” Mother chastises him, though he knows from her tone she’s struggling not to laugh. Betha Blackwood has the bawdiest tongue in all seven kingdoms when it strikes her fancy, it’s no wonder she passed it on to her children. 

After a few more minutes of deliberation, Daeron picks the first doublet shown to him—a solid black color with red stitching, and a large three-headed dragon emblazoned on its chest. He thinks it suits him best—it’s not something father would wear, nor Duncan, nor Jaehaerys even. It’s bold, so unlike his brothers, and Daeron likes it. 

The sky is almost impossibly blue as they make their way to the Great Sept of Baelor. The smallfolk of King’s Landing fill the streets, eager to catch a glimpse of the future king and his queen. Father rides in front with mother, and even a deaf man could tell the majority of the shouts are for them. 

_“Long live King Aegon!”_

_“Seven blessings to you, your grace!”_

_“Black Betha!”_

He does hear a few shouts of ‘ _May the Gods bless you, Prince Daeron!’_ which unnerve him more often than not. Those shouts all used to be for Duncan—and many of the commoners are still shouting for Duncan, the prince is beloved for having lowered himself to marry his Jenny—but they’re also shouting for him. Daeron isn’t used to being shouted for, he’s used to riding behind Duncan and japing with Shaera, or making faces to make Rhaelle laugh, but Shaera isn’t here now, and Rhaelle is too old to find him making faces at her funny anymore. 

The royal party arrives at the entrance to the sept, and after giving the commoners a few waves, they enter. The statues of the seven are all white marble, like men and women frozen alive in ice. The Mother’s face is painstakingly carved to reflect an expression of benevolence, while the father’s shows judgment. Daeron has never been the most pious of people—but he does believe in the Gods. He can feel the seven here, just like he feels mother’s gods of old whenever he visits the dead weirwood at Raventree Hall. 

Daeron is stood up on the elevated platform of the sept, High Septon Garth at his side when Olenna makes her entrance. It takes all the princely, well-bred manners he can summon not to gape. 

Olenna Redwyne is wearing a dress of ivory silk and myrish lace, her skirts decorated with patterns of twisting grapevines decked out in seed pearls. The cut is somehow both immodest and modest at the same time, showing off his betrothed’s shoulders as well as a tasteful amount of cleavage. Her hair is done up in one of the styles of the Reach, half of it braided up, the other half cascading down her freckled shoulders. 

Daeron thinks he must look a poor sight compared to her—and for a man as vain as he is, that’s saying something—but when she raises her head to look at him he catches a flash of the same shock he experienced when gazing at her, and puffs out his chest slightly, smirking at her all the while. Olenna dearly looks like she wants to scoff, but given the seriousness of the occasion, she settles for a subtle eye-roll. 

Once she arrives at the top of the stairs, the Septon begins his preaching. Before long, the seven vows are made, the seven blessings invoked, and the seven promises exchanged. Once the wedding song is sung, and the challenge goes unanswered, it is time for the exchanging of the cloaks. Lord Runceford Redwyne removes his daughter’s maiden cloak tenderly, whilst Daeron accepts his bride’s cloak from Duncan and shakes it out in a theatrical flourish. Daeron drapes Olenna in the black-and-red cloak and leans close to fasten it at her throat. Just like that, she passes from her father’s protection to Daeron’s, from Olenna Redwyne to Olenna Targaryen. 

“With this kiss, I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife,” Daeron declares, his voice carrying across the Sept of Baelor in ringing tones. 

“With this kiss, I pledge my love, and take you as my lord and husband,” Olenna echoes the promise, and he thinks that he sees a victorious smirk cross her face.

Daeron pulls her close—and, just to see if he can make the unwavering Queen of Thorns blush, as well as to make a spectacle—kisses her much deeper and longer than deemed appropriate, until the High Septon has to clear his throat. When he pulls away, he’s pleased to see her expression is gobsmacked and her face redder than the three-headed dragon that hangs off her back. 

Daeron gives her a cheeky wink, and to his surprise, she laughs, then they join hands and face the crowd of nobles gathered within the great sept. Cheers ring out, and—half for show, and half because the bloody thing’s lopsided—playfully adjusts the golden circlet on his head as if to say he’d kissed her so fiercely that it almost fell off. The crowd laughs, his father and Ser Duncan the loudest, while his mother shakes her head in fond exasperation.

Ser Duncan leads the procession out of the sept, but as they’re walking out he sees Jeremy with something of a frown on his face, and in order to cheer up his friend/recent bedmate Daeron gives him a wink, and that appears to lift the Norridge knight’s spirits. 

They greet the crowds of smallfolk gathered at the steps to the great sept, Father and mother waving benevolently. Daeron observes the crowds before him with a smile until a subtle elbow in the ribs from his betrothed—no, _wife_ —makes him realize that he should be waving too, and he belatedly lifts up his arm and does so. Olenna appears the picture of grace, waving to the crowds with a kind smile so uncharacteristic to her usual unimpressed expression she goes about the world wearing that he almost laughs. 

The bells of the sept toll as they ride back to the Red Keep, and after doing so much waving he thinks his arm is going to fall off, they make it safely through the gates. 

The feast in the yard is a grand one—seventy-seven courses, though father insists that any leftovers, of which there shall surely be many, be given to the poorest of the city. Lords and ladies from all over come to congratulate Daeron and Olenna, who sit at the high table on the dais, the Prince and Princess of Dragonstone. Luthor Tyrell walks up to them and wishes them a fruitful marriage—and Daeron barely contains a snigger because the man who was to wed his sister seemingly cannot keep his eyes off of Olenna’s cleavage. When he goes, Daeron turns to his wife. 

“I say, Lord Luthor seemed to have quite the difficult time getting his eyes off of…the wonderful embroidery on your dress.” 

Snorting, Olenna takes a sip of mulled wine. “He’s an oaf,” She shook her head. “I’d planned to marry him, you know. Seduce him away from your sister. Before your father wrapped any chances of Jaehaerys becoming king in that bloody sheet he and Shaera stormed the court with and threw it in the Blackwater.” 

Daeron feels his jaw go slack. “Marry him? He’s dimwitted! I cannot imagine you suffering him for long.” 

“He’s also handsome, and the heir to the reach—a far better match than a third son with little to nothing to inherit.” 

Daeron puts a hand to his heart. “You touch me, my lady. Truly no woman alive has had such a romantic and poetic way of putting things.” 

Before Olenna can construct a rejoinder to that they’re interrupted by more Lords and Ladies ready to greet them. Tytos Lannister is first—Lord Gerold couldn’t come down from the Rock due to illness—and Daeron finds himself thoroughly unimpressed with the heir to the west. Lord Tytos is kind, but he’s got no wits to him. The poor bastard is more fit to inherit an _inn_ than the richest kingdom in Westeros. His son, Tywin, a boy of one who’s being held by his copper-haired mother, is an altogether different picture—for whatever reason, the little thing glowers at almost everyone and everything in sight, especially his father. 

After him comes Lord Edwyle Stark, a serious man with a long face who Daeron can’t help but respect, especially considering their shared roots. 

“The Starks and the Blackwoods are kin, my lord. It is my hope that the Houses Stark and Targaryen develop similar ties someday—the Pact of Ice and Fire remains unfulfilled, after all. For now, I look forward to the relationship between North and South only strengthening,” Daeron tells the man, a courtly smile on his face. 

Lord Stark appears momentarily surprised at the reply, before lowering his head graciously and wishing him and Olenna a happy marriage once more, then stepping off the dais. 

Daeron feels Olenna lean into him. “You’re rather good at this.”

To his chagrin, he realizes that she’s right. He _is_ good at this. 

When the fuck did that happen?

Daeron was—is—a third-born son through and through. Wild, sarcastic, reckless—no need to learn how to navigate the court like the heir or the spare. But the past three years have seen him both developing and honing his skills in this regard. He’s still brash, and his acerbic wit is well-known throughout the court, much like his wife’s, but Daeron is able to play the courtiers in a way he’s never thought to do so as if it’s merely second nature. 

He shudders involuntarily at the thought of it. Well, at least he has his vices—to that point, he turns to where Jeremy sits across the yard, meets his gaze, and raises a glass toward him with a smirk. 

Eventually, the dancing begins, and he’s dragged to the floor by his wife. They dance several numbers together—Seasons Of My Love, Six Maids in a Pool, but by the time they get to The Bear and The Maiden Fair they switch, Olenna going to Duncan, and Daeron to cousin Daenora. 

_“Oh come, they said, oh come to the fair! The fair? Said he, but I’m a bear!”_ The crowd of nobles sings along with the bards, their faces flushed with wine and laughter, and he grabs hold of his cousin’s hand. 

“So,” Daeron says, over the din, “How’s Maegor enjoying the festivities?” 

Daenora smiles, though before she can answer the next line comes into full force. 

_“And down the road from here to there. From here! To there! Three boys a goat and a dancing bear!”_

“He’s sulking,” Daenora replies, spinning around as Daeron outstretches his arms. 

Daeron snorts. “What a surprise!” He twirls her. “Any plans for him?” 

“How do you mean?” They jump up at the next line.

_“They danced and spun, all the way to the fair! The fair! The fair!”_

“You know,” Daeron clasps her other hand and takes two steps to the right. “Is he going to serve as a page somewhere? He’s the right age for it.” 

Daenora’s face falls slightly. “I don’t want him too far from me,” They take another two steps to the left. “He should stay here at court for now.” 

_“Oh, sweet she was, and pure and fair! The maid with honey in her hair! Her hair! Her hair! The maid with honey in her hair!”_

“You can come with me to Dragonstone,” Daeron offers, twirling her once more. “He can serve as my page—I’ve only recently been knighted, but I am the Prince of Dragonstone after all,” The words are said with a self-deprecating smirk.

_“The bear smelled the scent on the summer air. The bear! The bear! All black and brown and covered with hair!”_

His cousin hums thoughtfully to that, and Daeron knows that he has her. Though she stays in King’s Landing rather than going to Summerhall or Dragonstone out of high hopes for Maegor, Daenora Targaryen despises the court. She’s looked at as if she’s a barrel of wildfire that can blow up any second due to her marriage to the Brightflame—and her son fares no better. By having Maegor as his page he’s both getting her out of King’s Landing away from the whispers that follow her and his nephew, as well as honoring the little prince with such a position as serving as a page for the future King. Besides, Maegor’s a sweet lad, and for all his smart comments Daeron takes pity on him for his position. To have a madman for a father is no easy thing—not that Daeron would know, for all Father’s leniency when it comes to his children makes him disliked by the high lords who’ve been insulted by them, he’s certainly no madman. 

_Well_ , Daeron thinks, smiling inwardly, _He made me of all people Prince of Dragonstone, so perhaps there is something to be said about his mental faculties._

“I’ll think on it,” She finally says after a minute of silence, jumping up with him once more at the last line.

_“And off they went from here to there, The bear, the bear, and the maiden fair!”_

When the dancing is all but over, he hears the tune he’s been waiting for the entire night: The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, The King Took Off His Crown.

Before he even realizes it, Daeron is lifted up in the air by an assortment of ladies—Lady Velaryon, His aunts, Rhaelle, Viola Redwyne, and Daenora. He turns to the other end of the yard to see Olenna being lifted up by an assortment of Lords, her face looking as if she’s quite unimpressed with the lot of them, and they’re both carried off to their bedchamber before they know it. 

Hands tug at his doublet and trousers, and with each passing second, it seems as if he grows more and more naked, though the ladies’ ribald jokes make him laugh so hard he doesn’t really care. Daeron did not know Rhaelle had inherited her mother’s bawdy tongue, but damn it all by the time they reach the doors of his bedchamber his stomach hurts from all the laughing. 

He’s thrown onto the bed, quite unceremoniously, naked as the day he was born, and after a few seconds, Olenna follows, much the same. The door closes behind them but the nobles all stay at the door—each one telling a jape bawdier than the next. 

_“Remember, your grace,”_ A clearly drunken voice comes through the door, _“She’s a Redwyne! So be sure to drink her up like a fine Arbor Gold!”_

Daeron meets Olenna’s eyes at that and they both can’t restrain their laughter. 

“My, that was a creative one,” She says, fixing her hair slightly. The brown waves fall over her shoulders as she runs her hair through what’s left of the braids. 

A slightly awkward silence descends on them, and Daeron can’t help but twiddle his thumbs in nervousness. For all his brashness, he’s never laid with a woman before—and the arrangement with Jeremy only came about four days prior. He doesn’t think he can apply what he and Jeremy do to this situation, however—heirs are most definitely _not_ made that way. He chances a look at Olenna once more, and she’s looking at him both expectantly and with trepidation. Her tongue may be sharp, but he thinks that he sometimes forgets that she’s a girl of five-and-ten, and he a boy of five-and-ten. At this age, Father was squiring for Dunk, marriage wasn’t even on his mind. Yet because of their position, things are far different for him and Olenna. Had Jaehaerys sucked it up and wed the trout he was supposed to rather than mount the dragon he wasn’t, Daeron might still be at Highgarden without a care in the world, and Olenna could be scheming her way into Luthor Tyrell’s bed. 

Whatever hesitation was in her face before disappears, and with a steely expression she speaks, her tone very no-nonsense: “Right, let’s get on with this, then.” 

Daeron lets out a chortle, giving her a dramatically drawn-out sigh. “Oh, be still my beating heart.” 

She pounces on him, and he’s left speechless as her lips move on his, his body frozen in shock before he finally follows her movements and takes control. The sheets fold and wrinkle beneath them like melting candles as they move together, and all Daeron can think of as he makes her his wife for true is that this is most definitely _not_ Jeremy—though he isn’t complaining. 

After a few minutes, he finds his release—and by the gasp Olenna lets out, she hers—and rolls off of her to his side of the bed. 

“Well,” He says, for the first time in his life, at a loss for words. “That was…” 

“…Riveting,” she finishes, breathing heavily. When he turns to her her eyes are wide and staring at the ceiling. “You’re not half-bad at this, Prince of lizards.” 

Daeron reaches for the decanter set on the nightstand before them and pours two glasses of Arbor Gold, wordlessly handing one to Olenna which she accepts with a nod. 

“Any previous experience to compare it to, my lady?” Daeron asks, an eyebrow raised in amusement. He doesn’t believe for a second the girl who so casually told him she’d planned to seduce the heir of the reach is some sweet maid who blushes at the sight of an ungloved hand. 

Olenna shrugs, answering honestly: “A few dalliances with some singers who passed through the Arbor, but nothing more than some stolen kisses and heavy petting. Rest assured, my maidenhead was all yours. After all, there’s blood on these sheets isn’t there?” 

Daeron tilts his head to that silently and takes a sip of his wine. 

“And you?” She asks, casually swirling around the wine in her chalice. 

Daeron smirks. “A prince never kisses and tells.” 

“The Norridge boy?” 

He chokes on the wine he was swallowing, coughing it up ungraciously as Olenna looks on at him with a raised eyebrow. Daeron feels dread coil in his stomach—how does she know? Does anyone else? Does father? Gods, the thought of explaining something like that to his parents makes him mortified, and he kicks himself for ever starting the blasted affair in the first place. 

“You—what?” He asks, severely. 

Infuriatingly, she whickers. “Oh please, no need to get yourself worked into knots over it. It’s perfectly normal.” 

“How do you—“ 

“I didn’t until now,” She says, smirking, and seven fucking hells she’s caught him. “But I suspected. Nevertheless, it’s no great tragedy. Plenty of men prefer the sword to the sheath.” 

“I do not prefer the sword to the sheath!” Daeron jumps up from the bed, not caring about his unclothed state, and paces around the room, frantically. “I—I—I—“

“—You, yes,” Olenna’s voice is somehow still unruffled, amused if anything. “If you’re worried anyone else suspects, I don’t think they do.” That calms him some. “I just have a special…intuition when it comes to these things.” 

“You don’t care?” 

“Why should I?” Daeron’s confusion must show on his face because she rolls her eyes and shakes her head as if she’s dealing with a particularly stupid child. “Is the Norridge boy a hermaphrodite?” He shakes his head in disgust, and she inclines her head toward him. “Then as long as he’s not able to pump out any bastards to challenge my children’s claims, he’s no threat to me. In fact, I think it’s for the best. Better you take out all your lustful feelings on him than some barmaid who can whelp a little Blackfyre.” 

Daeron, though seeing her point, is still slack-jawed in shock at this turn of events. “I cannot fathom why you aren’t screaming at me right now.” 

Olenna snorts. “Where I come from we don’t tie ourselves into knots over a discreet bit of buggery. I’m afraid we do draw the line at brothers and sisters.” Daeron is able to muster a chuckle at that one. “Besides, I’m all for adventure in the bedchamber. Should you wish to bring the Norridge boy in one night, I wouldn’t be opposed,” She says, eyeing him expectantly over the rim of her chalice. 

“I’m afraid the _Norridge boy_ —who is older than you are, by the way,” She waves away that fact as if it were a fly, “Is not as flexible as I am when it comes to attraction. Nevertheless, I thank you for your…adaptability, my lady.” 

“Think nothing of it,” She eyes him with a smirk that could cut glass, and pointedly lowers her eyes to the lower half of his body. “Now, if you would like, my prince—I think I’m more than ready for the second tilt.” 

Daeron catches her meaning and laughs, shrugging off the previous feelings of dread and climbing back into bed at his wife’s command. “It’s Daeron if you like—we are married, after all, my lady. No need to keep up any courtly pretenses anymore.” 

“Olenna, then,” She raises her chalice in a toast, and he clinks it with his, before downing the remainder of the arbor gold inside and going about his husbandly duties. 

Now, _this_ duty is certainly one he can get used to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking Georgie Henley for Olenna, and Ross Lynch for Daeron - he just has that boyishly handsome, Disney star face to him that I picture Daeron with more than anything lol.  
> There's going to be several time jumps throughout this story, so be prepared for that. Thank you all for reading! Please leave a comment if you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> Chat with me on tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/allineedistwentygoodmen


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